Saturday, 26 November 2011

It’s Al’s birthday today. Am a bit down. Not as low as I
feared I would be but feeling somehow flat ... and yet emotional.

So far today I haven’t received a single acknowledgement.
I’m due to take my mother and daughter for lunch in an hour. I’ve been putting
off getting ready because I’m not even sure whether my mother recognises the
significance of the date and I’m dreading having to listen to her bang on about
her cold or other trivial ailments for a few hours.

Update:As I typed
the last sentence, I received a text from another bereaved Mum. It was much
needed and perfectly timed.

We then collected the Birds of Paradise from the florist – they
seem so representative of Al so I try to get some on his significant days. Then
we drove to my Mum’s place to collect her and take her for lunch. We called her
10 minutes before we arrived to let her know how long we would be. When we got
there, we then spent 20 minutes calling her phone and ringing her bell only to have
her announce (without the slightest trace of embarrassment) that that she had
popped out to chat to someone.

We arrived at the restaurant and ordered food. She asked,
“Is it the 27th today?”

“No mum it’s the 26th – it’s Al’s birthday.”

“Oh – I think I’ve got an appointment on the 27th
– I’ve lost track of the days ha ha – is it Friday or Saturday today?”

“It’s Saturday Mum. It’s the 26th and it’s Al’s
birthday.”

“Oh right. I wonder when that appointment is. Mind you that
woman is always making mistakes – the one who books the appointments.”

“Is it? Ooh.” Eyebrows raised as it sinks in. “Eeh it goes
fast [pause for 3 seconds as she thinks] I can’t think when that appointment is. I’ll have to check when I get
home.”

I sat seething. Not only had she no awarenessof the significance of the date, but even
when it was pointed out, it failed to make any real impact on this selfish woman who
has spent the last two and a half years loudly proclaiming how much she loved
him. My youngest caught my eye and squeezed my hand sympathetically.

I swallowed down the fury that was slowly building, managed
to eat something, and asked if she needed any shopping whilst she had the car
at her disposal. She did.

When we got to the supermarket, to give myself a breather
from her, I wandered through the clothing section. I found a skirt and tried it
on. Pleased with what I saw, and glad I had something positive, however
trivial, to focus on, I said, “Oh my word - this is a 12 and it
fits perfectly on the hips but I’ll have to reduce the waist by 3 inches – it looks
like I’m officially an hour glass figure now.” Considering my massive weight
loss over the past few years, (and the daily criticism as I grew up re my
obesity) you might think she’d want to congratulate me but instead she said
that all the sizes were wrong - "they're all big in here" - and then added that she could probably get into a
size 6. To prove her point, she grabbed one and held it against her. Again
my daughter shot me a sympathetic glance as I said, “It’s OK Mum – I won’t
compete.” However, the irony was lost on her.

It was a relief to get her and her shopping back to her flat
and to leave as quickly as possible.

I arrived home to some much-needed emails from people who
had remembered and a lovely card that a friend had popped through my door. This
was quickly followed by a couple of texts acknowledging the date. What a
relief. I thought it had been completely forgotten by almost everyone.

I had a text from my sister in law – that’s the closest I
got to any contact from my family. Ironically, she buried her grandfather last
week and is very low but still managed to find time to lay some flowers for Al
and get in touch with me – unlike either of my sisters, my brother or my
father.

I nervously logged onto Facebook to find half a dozen
messages for him from his friends. It tickles me to think that they speak to
him via Facebook. It feels as if they imagine him sitting on a cloud with a
couple of beautiful white wings fixed to his back and a halo (albeit, knowing
my boy, somewhat skew-whiff) and logged into Facebook saying “Yo bro!” as he
reads messages from old friends. Those messages, from young people who knew
him, meant a lot – he hasn’t been forgotten.

Friday, 25 November 2011

Whatever ‘moving on’ is, I think I might be doing it. Last
weekend, I had a conversation with a man who wanted to date me. I was open to
the idea. He seemed like a nice enough person, we shared some interests and he
came highly recommended as a really lovely man.

Quite early in our first phone call he mentioned that his mother had
died almost a year ago. Later I told him about losing Al. The conversations
flowed quite freely and it was all pretty relaxed. We covered all kinds of
subjects and seemed to have similar values.

We met for coffee and at some point, we talked about coping
strategies. I mentioned that I’m good to have around in a crisis as I tend not
to panic but instead, to appear incredibly calm and focussed on everyone and
everything else around me. I mentioned how I had acted the night that Al died.
His response floored me.

There was no acknowledgement of the enormity of what I’d
just said (OK I didn’t expect an in depth analysis of it) but instead, “Yes I’m also good in a crisis – the weather
was awful when I got married for the second time. My family were all late so I
just took over as an usher.”

He actually thought it was perfectly acceptable to respond to
my comment about the night my boy died, with an anecdote about his wedding – to
compare the crisis of my son dying with the crisis of being an usher short at a
wedding. And to casually include the info that he had already been married
twice.

Later he asked if he could see me again and I declined and talked
about him being a nice man but I felt there was a lack of chemistry etc. I spent
the next half hour politely fending off his attempts to get me to change my
mind.

Oddly enough, every time I think of this pillock’s response
to my comment, I laugh. It’s funny because it’s so ridiculous. It doesn’t make
me angry as it would if a family member had said it. Just a few months ago, I’d
have seethed for days but now it just makes me laugh. Maybe this is ‘moving on’.

About Me

Until 30th May 2009, I was mum to 3 young people. Two girls, 13 and 20, and a boy, 17. Suddenly, with a brief phone call, I was plunged into a nightmare. My son, Al, was dead - killed when crossing the road, by a man who, mistakenly, thought he was playing chicken and so decided to call his bluff.